BILLIONAIRE'S REGRET: HIS EX-WIFE RETURNS FROM THE DEAD

The dinner dragged on for the sake of my misery.

But I did my best to hold a stiff expression, leaving as soon as we were dismissed, mostly to avoid whining in the Lupins’ sorry faces.

Another reason is so that I could be home earlier to watch from the torment of my window whether Zeath would bring the bitch back home.

I only now grasp the last string of trust I have in him to think he wouldn’t.

I mean, he should consider better than to treat me in such a manner, even though his recent actions have dipped my dignity in shite.

As I entered my vehicle, I caught him opening his car door for his prat. And he didn’t glance my way one second before joining her and zooming off.

Surely, the dust from his tires settling on my windshield was a petty move forcing me to savor my shame.

“Take me home,” I told my driver, who stared at me rather pitifully through the rearview mirror.

I didn’t ask for pity and won’t, though I’m quick to cry, which is seen as a weakness or, in some cases, blackmail.

Even now, I’m battling to force back one as I stand by the window like I wanted, waiting for my husband to arrive.

I haven’t moved an inch since I reached home two hours ago.

And I bet the birds occasionally stopping by to bully their reflections would soon discover my presence and think, ‘Oh, squawk! There’s a squawk Hooman. A pathetic one at that!’

They won’t be wrong.

Once I spot Zeath’s car riding into the garage, I hurry out of the room.

My heels are hurting, but I don’t care. What’s more painful than slamming a hammer on a person’s heart, anyway?

I pause in front of the room when I hear him coming up. Each footfall that creaks on the staircase earns a sharp sigh from me.

And I can’t tell what the punishment is between holding my breath or letting myself sniff Zeath’s potent patchouli scent—minty, velvety, warm; but also capable of trapping its victim in a hazy cavity of lust, which, when not quenched, leads to sexual frustration.

Exactly what I’m feeling right now. Let’s also not forget to add my exasperation from Zeath’s ruthless display, as well as agitation at the reality I find myself in.

I don’t know how my legs moved me to the staircase landing. I only realize I’m there when the top of Zeath’s head appears below.

He’s taking quite the time to come up when the spiral staircase covers just two floors.

Does it have something to do with me? Maybe he’s reconsidering his choice of coming home.

Surely, some baby daddies prefer to be with their baby mama. Now it makes me wish so badly that I was the latter.

Zeath has a few more steps to cover but suddenly stops after noticing me, succumbing to a discontent grunt.

Assessing him from crown to sole, he seems tired.

The suit jacket he had during dinner must have been abandoned somewhere—I know where. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his veiny arms. And his torso snatches every inch of the shirt. I swear, it doesn’t leave any jolly. Even the buttons can’t handle him.

His pants cling to his lower limbs, especially around his heavy thighs. What amazes me every time is the usual protruding outline of his crotch that gives me tingles whenever I set my eyes on it.

I can’t believe how much I want to kiss him. His slightly full lips always carried a relish that left me heady. Now they’re drawing me, causing my sight to ripple in twos as my hand hastens to grip the rail.

Or I’m probably exhausted.

“You’re not in bed,” Zeath’s calm voice bounces over the walls.

I want to give a snappy response like, ‘Yeah, since when did we sleep at barely 8 pm?’ But my tongue has rolled behind itself.

Instead, I make a move.

Before I can stop myself, I’m going down the staircase, stopping at the same level as Zeath and letting my hands caress him from his abdomen to his chest before leaning on him.

I tiptoe and try to kiss him. He doesn’t even avoid me since he’s so tall I can’t reach him.

Usually, he’s the one who inclines to my height. Now he seems irritated at my approach.

Yet, I don’t care. He’s just tired; that’s it.

I climb two more steps before tiptoeing again. This time, I reach him. But as I try to pry his lips open, he doesn’t allow me, so I resort to sucking them.

After a few seconds of poking a wall, he finally lets me in.

It’s not like I wanted, however. Zeath grabs my jaws roughly and kisses me so hard he might have even bitten my lips.

He’s aggressive, not how I’m used to.

He had always been soft with me; asked me from time to time if I felt comfortable.

Now he’s just a beast salvaging what he can from an already wrecked cabin that tries to hold out a snowstorm.

And I’m the wrecked cabin.

“Get as greedy as you want,” he groans against my lips. “Because this will be your last.”

I wrench myself from his clasp, nearly stumbling on the step behind me. Breathing profusely, caressing my lips with my index finger, I stare in awe at the man.

He’s changed. Too much and too short a period. Whatever happened?

We were... happy. Our marriage was fulfilling, and Zeath was so supportive and understanding of the fact that we couldn’t have sex until we were three years into the marriage.

How he’s forgotten all we had still amazes me.

He walks past me, and after a moment of recovery, I follow his scent to find him in the room, undressing in front of the wardrobe.

Loitering about the entrance, I watch as he puts on his silk black pajamas, slides the closet door shut, but stands there.

Then the words bleed through my throat. “Did you ever love me?” That was painful to ask, as much as I’m aware the answer will steer the same effect.

“No,” he simply replies. “I would never, even if I were cursed.” His words drive chills down my spine, making me question whether witchery is real because now I see its evidence.

“For me, it’s someone who can sniff and bring to life their purpose. Someone with potential,” he continues before turning around to approach me while I’m stuck where I stand. “Not one who dwells in a fantasy, who thinks she can stumble on a prince, kiss his face, and claim him.”

Zeath has covered the space between us. That was quick, yet not nearly as fleeting as my heartbeats.

He looks down at me, his voice falling so deep it scratches my brain. “Admit it, you never really loved me. You are just an obsessed cockatoo.” It’s not only the voice, though; I believe confusion’s messing my brain as well. Because, at this point, Zeath makes no sense.

“Do you know how much I wished you wouldn’t come near me, even... touch me?” he drones on. “All those cuddles, kisses, and affection? They all made my skin crawl—like a troll embracing its victim before gobbling them. One can only imagine how much it stinks. You’re no different.”

He emphasizes every consonant sound in the sentence, each v’s, b’s, and g’s causing me to flinch. “You merely caught my attention because you were a self-absorbed twonk, and we needed to test if you even had the heart to love another.”

“We?” I croak out. Then Zeath lifts his hand to my face.

I recoil at first. Still, I don’t change my stance of horror as his fingers trail gently along my face.

“Poor Mellow, it’s all a dare, a gratifying one. My boys at school thought it was fun to break the stone-cold girl. I thought the same too when I approached you... pfft... three years ago? Now this staleness you call marriage has grown so... loud.”

His eyes glint with pure poison, and his voice no better. The disgust in both is evident. “It’s always been Yolie, for me. She’s someone you can never be. And as we speak, my marriage to her is in order. Divorce or not, the choice is yours.”

‘The choice is yours.’

That keeps ringing in my head, tingling in my gums, and torturing me to stay still.

I can’t believe the stuff I’ve just heard. Are they even real? Is this the true Zeath? I hope it’s all just a dream. I hope my husband will wake up tomorrow, kiss me good morning, and draw me into his embrace like he always did.

My eyes well up at that thought. I watch through the tears as Zeath gathers two pillows and a blanket before moving past me, but my voice stops him at the threshold.

“So... that’s how it is.” The dawn of realization—it’s like cold water washed over me. “Yolie,” I utter, my voice still shaky. “The same Yolie from high school that I know. A total bully and failure. Always had her mom come yapping at the principal whenever someone pinched her and she couldn’t pinch back.” I turn around to face Zeath, who doesn’t do the same. “Is that the potential you mean? Bullshit...”

The man proceeds to leave, and I’m left by myself, scoffing in disbelief.

Then, as the tears slide down, I fail woefully at stopping them. Instead, I whisper through the cracks in my tone, “I’m not giving up on you, babe; you know that.”

How I wish it were easier to live inside my head. Because it sounds much better there when I think, ‘I can’t let anyone tramp over me and dispose of me like that. And I’m not filing for any damn divorce either!’